


All in the Family

by sgam76



Series: A Sharp, Dressed Man 'verse [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A little less fluffy than previous installments, Anything more would be a spoiler, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Gen, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Vampire Mycroft, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires aren't supernatural, Vamplock, but SOME things are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-11-07
Packaged: 2020-10-25 17:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20727758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sgam76/pseuds/sgam76
Summary: John was having a perfectly normal, pleasant afternoon. Well, until a bleeding patient fell through the ceiling.





	1. Declaration of Intent

**Author's Note:**

> So we're coming up on my favorite holiday, so I think it's time to visit our resident bloodsuckers again. This is shortish and largely already written, so I'll be posting it regularly in the lead-up to Halloween.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was having a perfectly normal, pleasant afternoon. Well, until a bleeding patient fell through the ceiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we're coming up on my favorite holiday, so I think it's time to visit our resident bloodsuckers again. This is shortish and largely already written, so I'll be posting it regularly in the lead-up to Halloween.

John thought afterward that it really had been a fairly pleasant, non-exciting, non-supernatural or especially vampiric day. Which made it all the more startling when Sherlock suddenly dropped through the hole that appeared in the ceiling of the lounge. Well, not the ceiling, exactly—to be accurate, it was a hole in _reality_ popping up, roughly 2 feet below the actual ceiling. John didn’t really have time to worry about that, though, since Sherlock, once he thudded bonelessly to the floor, proved to be bleeding. Rather a lot, and from a number of places at once.

He was also, as John established once he launched himself from his chair to that sprawled body, unconscious. John didn’t have time to worry about that, though, what with the whole “bleeding a lot” thing to deal with first.

Sherlock never stirred as John tugged his bloody jacket and shirt off—no sign of his coat, despite the freezing temperatures outside. _Probably came from inside somewhere, then_, his subconscious whispered, which he ignored since he wasn’t yet prepared to deal with the hole in reality above his head. The hole which, as he remembered it, suddenly popped like a soap bubble and disappeared.

The wounds, once exposed, proved to be relatively superficial with the exception of one or two deeper spots. They also appeared to have been made with claws, much like the ones Sherlock secretly stored within his fingers. The bleeding had almost stopped from the smaller wounds, but two great four-tiered slash lines ran around his ribcage and right hip that were ugly, torn, and still seeping blood. John dashed into the loo for his kit, and made a side jog to grab his phone on the way. He upended the kit on the carpet in the interests of time, shouting for Mrs. Hudson as well.

John spent the next twenty minutes cleaning, sewing and swearing—the wounds continued to bleed slightly, despite John’s tightest sutures. Mrs. Hudson twittered and fretted, asking questions John couldn’t answer; he finally sent her downstairs, once all the stitches were set and heavy gauze packing was secured over the worst spots. When she came back up, she carried two of Sherlock’s blood bags with her and hustled into the kitchen to warm them.

Between the two of them, they managed to carefully lift the detective and settle him on the sofa, covered by the duvet from his bed and tucked in with two pillows. Just as they finished, his eyelids fluttered and opened, showing dazed pale-grey eyes that swept the room in confusion.

“Hey,” John said gently, wiping a warm, damp flannel over the detective’s forehead and bloody hands. “You’re safe, and I think you’ll be OK in a bit. Can you tell me what happened?”

Sherlock blinked. “No,” he said finally. “It hurts,” he said fretfully, one spidery hand fluttering above his ribcage.

“Oh, yeah, bet it does,” John said. “Tell you what—you take one of these blood bags, and then I’ll give you some water and tablets, all right?” The second bag could be held in reserve, until John had a look at how Sherlock’s bandages were doing after the first.

Sherlock nodded obediently and opened his mouth for the straw Mrs. Hudson was holding out. Ten minutes later, blood successfully finished and tablets on board, his eyes slid shut again.

John suddenly remembered his phone, and why he’d wanted it so urgently. He nodded at Mrs. Hudson to watch their patient, and strode into Sherlock’s bedroom to make a call.

Ten minutes later, brisk footsteps came up the 17 steps, and Mycroft Holmes strode into the room, face intent, his eyes locked on his sleeping brother.

“Who attacked him?” he said, moving closer but not reaching out to touch.

“I told you, he didn’t know,” John said, “but it looks very much like another vampire. But that’s not the really important bit. Did you miss the whole ‘dropped in from a hole in midair’ part?”

“No,” Mycroft said absently, turning his attention to the ceiling and sniffing visibly. Which was, well, weirder than usual, even for a Holmes.

Being Mycroft, of course, he recognized John’s confusion. “There is something that shouldn’t be here,” he said, continuing to sniff.

“You mean, other than the _hole in reality_?” John said.

“Gate,” Mycroft said, bending closer to his brother, continuing to sniff. He knelt beside the sofa, then nodded his head in satisfaction, reaching carefully into Sherlock’s trouser pocket. He pulled out what looked like a small, dark-blue marble.

“What’s that?” John asked, holding his hand out. Mycroft, after a brief hesitation, dropped it into John’s waiting palm. It felt—_wrong_, somehow. Oily, even though it left no residue on his skin, and no such coating was visible. He gave an involuntary shudder, and Mycroft turned his sharp grey eyes John’s way.

“You can feel that?” he asked, surprise clear in his voice.

“Um…I guess?” John said. “It’s not…it feels _off_, somehow. Greasy.” That wasn’t quite the word, but he didn’t have a better one. “Again—what is it?”

“Think of it as an Oyster Card, in a way,” Mycroft said, patting Sherlock’s other pocket to make sure nothing remained. “But not for the Underground.” He paused, looking at his brother’s sleeping form pensively. “And something I had no idea my brother possessed.”

He stood up and looked around, sniffing again. “There should be a mate—an anchor of sorts,” he said. “Somewhere in this room, most likely. We need to find it.”

“Why?” John asked, while beginning to look under the furniture.

“Because a gate will open for more than one person,” Mycroft said, and began rummaging in the sofa cushions. “And that would be a bad thing.”

They found it, but only after Mycroft had carefully scooped up his brother and carried him to his bedroom to clear the couch.

Mycroft held up the second glass sphere and handed it to John, who added it to the original in his palm. He was surprised when the two clicked together, and proved very difficult to separate. “Magnets?” he asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “Nothing so mundane,” he sighed. “And I’m afraid another tedious session of explanations is in order. Can you make us some tea?”

John busied himself with tea, while Mycroft paced in the lounge, remarkably like his brother when agitated. John had just finished up and dropped a sleeve of biscuits on the coffee table when Sherlock staggered out of his bedroom, duvet wrapped around him.

“I need another bag of blood,” he said, eyebrows drawn down and squinting as if the light hurt him. “And I think I may be bleeding again.”

John hustled him to the sofa, got the other blood bag from the kitchen, and forced his arms out of the way so John could examine the bandages. Sure enough, the two largest sectors were weeping blood again, enough that the bandages were soaked.

He was debating taking Sherlock to A&E, hard though these injuries might be to explain, when he realized Mycroft was looming just over his right shoulder.

“What?” Sherlock said irritably around his straw. “It’s just a little blood.”

“It’s rather a lot of blood, all told,” Mycroft said, taking in the mess still spread across the carpet near the windows. “And it’s not what it seems.” He looked at John. “Do you or Sherlock have a magnet? A powerful one?”

Sherlock sighed and answered. “Under the kitchen sink,” he said. “In the blue plastic case. Don’t open it near anything metal.”

“Excellent,” Mycroft purred, and took the case from John. “Lie very still, brother,” he said, and pushed Sherlock gently down onto his back, the discarded bandages abandoned on the floor. He deftly unhooked and fished Sherlock’s belt off, as well.

“Is this necessary?” Sherlock whinged as Mycroft passed the magnet just above the suture lines on his chest, but was interrupted by a tiny “ping” as Sherlock flinched, and something impacted the magnet. Sherlock stared, but said nothing.

“That was in the wound?” John said, coming to examine the tiny gleaming sliver of metal.

“Yes, and there may be more,” Mycroft said, handing the magnet off to John. “Please continue checking, if you would. Use a pencil to separate them from the magnet; under no circumstances should they touch skin. I need to make a phone call.” He stalked into Sherlock’s room and closed the door.

By the time Mycroft came back, John had checked all of the wounds and recovered four more tiny flecks of metal, which shone eerily bright in a teacup. John started to reach for one to examine, when Mycroft’s voice came sharply from the doorway.

“Don’t touch it!” he barked, and came to take the cup from John’s hand. “It may not be specific to one person, and you would be much harder to treat than Sherlock.”

“Um,” John managed, before Sherlock rolled his eyes and huffed.

“It’s cursed, John,” he said, in that “obviously” tone of voice.

“Of course it is,” John said weakly.


	2. Initiating Action

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns some really, really different things about Mummy. Really.

After Sherlock’s pronouncement, he promptly laid back and went to sleep again, while John huffed in annoyance and waited for Mycroft to unwind enough to tell him what the hell was going on. Mycroft, for his part, busied himself with poking at the tiny metal shards in the teacup, periodically waving a hand over them, either nodding or scowling at the results.

John, at the end of his patience, finally reached out and poked Mycroft’s arm. “Give,” he said quietly, not wanting to wake Sherlock. “What are those things, and why are they so dangerous?”

Mycroft gave John a look that started as a scowl, but ultimately morphed into a diplomatic blandness. “In the kitchen,” he said, with a look back at his brother. “Quietly.” He picked up his blood-stained teacup and strode to the kitchen table, not waiting to see if John was following.

He was, of course. Didn’t he always? He settled into a chair and waited, determined that Mycroft was going to be the one to speak first for a change. It gave him a little, unworthy thrill of victory when the older man huffed and complied.

“I know my brother has explained to you that vampirism is not supernatural,” he began, sounding like he was beginning a lecture in ancient history at uni. “I know that you are also aware that there are other races, however, who definitely fit that description.”

John nodded. “Werewolves, yeah? Oh, and leprechauns. Though I assume, from the way this conversation is going, they’re not the only ones.”

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed. Most non-werewolf supernatural beings, however, fall under the general category of 'fae'. Your leprechaun friend does land in that category, though they are considered somewhat ‘lesser’ by the rest of the fae. A designation the leprechauns take sometimes-violent offense at, by the by.”

And John could certainly see Callaghan’s reaction to that, spiteful little bastard that he was.*

“So who are the rest?” John asked. “What, um, what varieties?”

Mycroft gave an involuntary snort of laughter, then looked annoyed at himself. “Please be sure not to use that word in their presence,” he said. “It wouldn’t go well.”

“All right,” John said with a eye-roll. “Use your own words.”

“It would be hard to give a broad description,” Mycroft began. “For the most part, the fae would appear human to you, though with perhaps one or two unlikely physical characteristics that mark them as ‘other’ to those who know what to look for. When I first encountered him, I suspected Moriarty was fae—those eyes, you know. When I got close enough, though, I could tell that he wasn’t.”

“How?” John asked, fascinated despite himself.

Mycroft looked hesitant, oddly. Sherlock solved the issue, though, by speaking from the couch, eyes still closed. “He can sense magic, and the fae are creatures of magic. Both of us can.”

John was aware his mouth was unattractively open, and hurried to shut it. “Um. How? Why, given that vampires aren’t magical?”

“Because our grandmother Vernet was fae,” Mycroft sighed. “It comes through the blood, ironically, though not in the sense vampires typically mean the word.”

John barked a quick laugh. It wasn’t often that he encountered Mycroft’s dry sense of humour. It was even less often that John wasn’t the butt of the joke, so this was a nice change.

“So you’re both, what, a quarter fae?” John asked.

Mycroft shook his head. “It doesn’t work like that,” he said. “Children born of mixed marriages with non-fae either _are_ fae, or not—all or nothing. In our family it was 100%, but of my mother’s sibling group of 5, only she and her older brother inherited the magic. I believe my grandmother was rather annoyed at that.”

Sherlock, apparently able to read John’s mind from across the room, supplied the next bit. “And no, it has no interaction with vampirism, nor did it matter that Grandmere wasn’t a vampire herself—though she could have made herself so, had she wished. Vampirism is a dominant genetic trait, as it happens, so a large majority of children from such joinings transition at puberty.”

“Wait a minute—she ‘could have made herself so’?” John said.

Mycroft frowned again. “The physical appearance of a fae is, in large measure, a choice. Once they fully inhabit their powers, at, oh, 30 or so, they can look any way they please, change their body in any way desired.”

John blinked. “So you two don’t, I mean, you could…”

Sherlock sighed from the sofa. “No, John, we didn’t make our appearances up from a book,” he sniffed. “I mean, look at Mycroft. Would anyone do that by choice?”

John managed not to snicker, but Mycroft briefly scowled at his brother nonetheless before picking up the narrative.

“Magic does not work without effort and practice, for the most part,” he said repressively. “Fae who live outside the human community begin training by the age of 5, and continue working and expanding their abilities for the rest of their long—_very_ long—lives. Neither Sherlock nor I had the desire to undertake such study, and our mother was fully in agreement. We have learned some basics, enough to recognize and defend against certain magical attacks, but little more. I am perhaps a bit more advanced than Sherlock simply because I am older—power tends to grow with age, as well as practice.”

“I, on the other hand, have perfected my parlour tricks,” Sherlock sniffed, and suddenly was bouncing tiny bits of flame on each of his fingertips. Mycroft raised his hand, and each blinked out. “Spoilsport,” Sherlock muttered, and rolled gingerly to face the back of the couch.

John blinked, blinked again, then decided to let it go. That wasn’t the oddest thing he’d ever seen in Sherlock’s company, after all.

“So, what happened to Sherlock, then?” John asked. “Who attacked him, and why?”

“Don’t know,” Sherlock said from the bowels of the couch.

“The fact that Sherlock has no memory of the event is significant in itself,” Mycroft said. “It implies that the attacker wished to hide his or her involvement, which is atypical for the fae. Powerful fae act without worrying about such things; if they attack, they have already decided the risk is worth it.”

“There’s no way you can tell?” John asked. “I mean, you could find the Gate OK, just by sniffing for it.”

A rumbling chuckle was heard from the couch. Mycroft ignored it.

“I could identify the presence of magic, and what kind,” Mycroft said. “But identifying the wielder requires familiarity, usually long familiarity, with that person’s magic. It’s not a scent, exactly, though my senses keep insisting that it is. But I do not recognize this ‘scent” at all.”

“So, what do we do?” John said. “Because I’m going to assume we can’t just let this pass and hope it doesn’t happen again.”

“No,” Mycroft agreed. “That is why I have called in an expert, who should be here momentarily.”

The couch snorted again, and Mycroft’s face congealed. Luckily, before the brothers could descend into schoolroom squabbling, the doorbell rang and Mrs. Hudson could be heard twittering away at a visitor.

Footsteps came slowly up the steps; Mycroft retained his superior sneer all the while, given that he knew the identity of the visitor. John was a little less sanguine. He got up from his chair and walked to the landing to greet the newcomer, and was shocked to see Mellie Holmes, panting a bit but smiling.

Mycroft, manners intact despite his exalted position, rose smoothly to his feet and came over as well. “Good day, Mummy,” he began, “I’m sorry to—” but was suddenly cut off when the older woman gasped, paled, and nearly collapsed. Between them, he and John were able to carefully guide her to John’s chair in the lounge, while Sherlock levered himself to a sitting position with a gasp of his own, holding his ribs.

John went for a glass of water, then checked Mellie’s pulse while she fluttered and insisted she was “very well, thank you.” She did improve somewhat, but remained very, very pale.

Finally, she passed one shaking hand over her hair, and looked at both of her sons, who looked very spooked indeed. “It’s Rudy,” she said. “He’s Chosen. And I suspect he used Sherlock’s attack as his ‘announcement’.” Then she burst into overwrought tears, while Mycroft looked horrified and Sherlock waved his hands frantically for John to help.

Five minutes later, Mellie was settled comfortably on the couch next to Sherlock, looking rather mortified, while Sherlock eyed her warily. “I do apologize,” she said, still a little damp. “I never do that kind of thing. It was just such a shock,” she added weakly.

“Um…shock?” John said, when it was clear nothing additional was forthcoming.

“Well, yes,” Mellie said. “My own brother. How could he?” she wailed, and Sherlock quietly took possession of one fluttering hand. She was still a Holmes, however, and noticed John’s mystified look.

“No one’s told you anything, have they?” she said, and gave her boys a Look. They didn’t flinch, quite, but it was close.

“You at least know about the fae, yes?” she asked, and John nodded. “My family stays away from most Court matters—I still have a few years yet before I must Choose, and I’m going to take advantage of every minute of it. But Rudy is my oldest brother; he’s past 80, and people have begun to notice that he’s not declining, especially when he forgets to fake it properly. He evidently decided, and opted for a show of force to announce his choice. With _my child_,” she finished. That last bit was a snarl. All of a sudden, there were two Mellies—one the warm dumpling of a woman John knew, and, overlaying her, another much taller, much leaner, much younger-looking woman, with ice-blue eyes that glowed with fury. As John stared, though, she shook herself, released Sherlock’s hand, and the dumpling was back. “Oh dear,” she said. “I do apologize. I know how alarming that looks.”

John managed not to shudder, and waved his hand. “Not a problem,” he said. Not quite true, but he knew it wasn’t directed at him, after all.

“Thank you, dear,” Mellie said absently. “That’s not something that happens often, thank goodness.” She looked around. “Now, where was I? Oh, Rudy. Well. You must understand, John, that the fae are divided into two Courts: the Seelie, and the Unseelie. Think of them like the West and the East, during the Cold War. The Unseelie are the Soviets, so to speak.” John saw Mycroft wince behind her, but the bureaucrat stayed silent. “When fae reach an age at which it is no longer possible to appear fully human without significant effort, we must Choose—opt for one Court or the other, and then migrate to that Court’s territory and remain there, barring occasional visits to the human world. Rudy has reached that point, but, unlike the remainder of my family, has opted for the Unseelie Court. And, in essence, he has declared himself our enemy—the Courts have been at odds for thousands of years, and often use proxies on this side of the veil to score points on their behalf.”

“There’s more to it than that, though, Mummy,” Mycroft said soberly. “He attacked Sherlock for a reason. And I believe I need to know why Sherlock had a Gate in his possession.”

Mellie flushed, looking somewhat shifty-eyed. “Well, I…_Ihadadream_,” she said, all in a rush as if she were being timed. John watched, amazed, as Mycroft’s mouth dropped open in surprise. Sherlock, in his turn, had gone very, very still.

“One of _those_ dreams?” Mycroft asked, in a small voice.

Mellie nodded. “It was…I couldn’t identify the source of the threat,” she said. “But I knew that he needed a way to escape—something that would literally pull him away without conscious action on his part. So I built the Gate, a small one. And I brought it here, hid the base in the cushions while Sherlock was getting dressed. Then I gave him the doorway, and told him how to use it.” She looked at Sherlock, still quiet beside her. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you why, dear. I just wasn’t sure it would help.”

Sherlock tried to sit up straighter, groaned, then subsided onto his back again, arms clasped around his ribs. “I just wish I remember who, or what, attacked me. My last memory is of leaving the flat.”

Mellie suddenly stiffened in her turn, just now noticing the smeared mess of blood on the carpet, then looking closer at Sherlock, noticing the bandages. “He _harmed_ you?” she said, in awful tones. “I just thought the pull through the gate had knocked you unconscious—he actually attacked you _physically_?” The eerily tall, thin woman was back, like a projection hovering over Mellie’s body.

“Someone did quite a lot of damage, and tried to make it look like a vampire attack,” John said warily, eyes on both women at once. “He’s in no real danger, but lost a lot of blood, and has a fair amount of pain.”

The eerie woman was now in the forefront, with Mellie a fading shadow. She stood, hair now longer and a metallic silver, eyes blazing. “He meant to _take_ you,” she said, fury in her voice. “He meant to bring you across the veil, leaving your blood behind, perhaps leaving a Shade as well that appeared to be your corpse.” The silver hair rose in tendrils; a wind began to blow through the room. John’s skin suddenly felt itchy, as if in the presence of a strong electrical field.

“_Mummy!_” Mycroft suddenly shouted, moving to stand in front of her. “_Not_ _here!_”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * The story of John's encounter with Callaghan can be found in "Dances, With Wolves".


	3. Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mellie explains. AGAIN. And John learns something unlikely, and more than a little unsettling, about himself.

Mellie came back to herself with a blink and a full-body shudder. The arcing power in the room fluttered, then faded, and the hairs on the back of John’s neck returned to normal. “Well,” John said, “I’m not sure what just happened, but I’m glad it’s over.”

Sherlock snorted. “Mummy let her temper get the better of her.”

“I did,” Mellie sighed, her pleasant, round shape back firmly in place. “It’s a failing of mine, and I should know better. That kind of thing can be quite dangerous.”

“She burned down the garden gazebo once when I startled her,” Sherlock snickered, and Mellie bloomed into a vibrant blush.

“You didn’t just _startle_ me, brat,” she said, more than a little defensively. “You dropped a _live barn rat_ in my lap.”

“Not 'live' for long,” Sherlock said. “And I thought you’d find it interesting_. I_ did.”

Mycroft gave a little irritated huff. “Can we return to the matter at hand, please? We need to decide on a course of action in relation to Rudy.”

Sherlock nodded. “Agreed. I have no desire to be dragged prematurely across the veil, and certainly not in the company of Rudy Vernet. Though I must confess I’m confused by his interest; he’s never made any secret of his disdain for our lack of commitment to our magic. And to his disdain for me, personally.”

“I don’t really think your personality has anything to do with it,” Mycroft said slowly, and both Mellie and Sherlock pulled to full attention, eyebrows raised. He gave an exasperated noise. “Well, it’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? He opted for the Unseelie Court, despite centuries of precedent in our family to the contrary. And one of the predominant aspects of that Court is their obsession with personal power, and its fundamental relationship with status within the Court.”

John blinked. “What, exactly, does that mean? In English, I mean.”

Sherlock huffed, this time. “The Unseelie Court operates on ‘survival of the fittest’, John. Rudy wants to claw his way to the top in the shortest possible time, with the least possible effort. So presumably my capture would have afforded him status, as well as access to family assets. The family would have believed me dead, until Rudy chose to reveal that he had me, and was willing to make an exchange.”

“No,” Mellie suddenly said, and all heads swiveled to her. “I think it’s simpler than that, dear. I don’t think he ever intended to bring you back—I suspect Mycroft’s thought of a Shade left in your place is entirely likely, especially a Shade that appeared to have been killed by a vampire. I think he intended to add your inherent power to his own. Rudy is a powerful mage in his own right—I suspect he may be somewhat more powerful than I these days, if only through the additional years between us. But if he could use _your_ power, latent though it is—there’s no one in the Court that could best him, short of the royals.”

“Wait a minute,” John said. “So he’d essentially use Sherlock like a, a storage battery? And how, exactly, would he keep Sherlock under control while doing so?”

“The cursed metal shards, John,” Mycroft said. “So long as it remained in his body, Sherlock would be bound to Rudy—compelled to obey, presumably. And the lingering effect of ongoing blood loss would keep him too weak to fight back.”

“_Cursed metal_?” Mellie said, in terrible tones. The thin woman with silver hair began to flicker around her shoulders again. Mycroft rose and handed her the teacup with the tiny silver slivers in the bottom. She passed her palm over the top of the cup, fingers twitching slightly, before giving a brisk nod.

“I see what he did,” she said, voice dark and angry. “Something that should never have been used, and certainly not on a member of his own family. This could have killed you, had not the Gate pulled you back quickly enough, though I suspect Rudy had aid on hand to prevent your death, at least.” She put the cup down, rose, and pushed Sherlock back onto his back on the sofa. “I need to heal you. There’s no other way to make sure it’s all out of your system.”

Sherlock winced and tried to sit back up. “No,” he said. “We used the magnet to pull out the shards. And you know how much it drains you to heal. I don’t need—”

“It is not up for discussion,” Mellie snapped. “I won’t heal all of it—I’ll just ensure no curse survives. It will likely also heal the smaller injuries, though not the deeper ones.” Sherlock frowned but subsided.

John, fascinated, watched as Mellie settled on the couch beside her son, then spread her hands wide over his bandages. No incantations, no hand motions—just an older woman, eyes closed, concentrating. Her hair did move a bit, but no more than a light breeze would cause, and her double-image remained but grew no more visible. As she worked, though, she visibly paled, while Sherlock began to look slightly green. Mycroft finally reached over and took her hands, pulling them away.

“Enough,” he said. “We don’t want you fainting, and now is not the time to render yourself weak. Also, if you continue, Sherlock may vomit.” Mellie startled, looking in concern at Sherlock, who was now grey, eyes closed and lips pressed closely together.

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said, stepping away carefully. “I’d forgotten how ill that always makes you.”

Sherlock shuddered, but remained silent. John rose and got him a glass of water, supporting his shoulders while he sipped. The detective finally sighed and opened his eyes.

“God, I hate that,” he said. “It’s like having hot water shot through all of your veins at once.” He shuddered again and re-closed his eyes.

Mellie turned to Mycroft. “So, what’s our next step? I don’t wish to alert Rudy of our awareness of his machinations before we’re ready, but by the same token, I don’t want him to come after Sherlock again without our being prepared.”

Mycroft thought about that momentarily. “I believe we might be well-served to return to the scene of Sherlock’s assault and examine the site. We may be able to trail Rudy back to his current location, if he’s still on this side of the veil.” He turned to John and held out his hand. “Could I see the Gate, please, John?”

John dug in his pocket and pulled out the two shiny, dark-blue marbles. He noticed in passing that they no longer felt greasy—apparently that was only an issue when they were in use, then. He dropped the linked pair into Mycroft’s waiting hand—then watched as the bureaucrat’s brows pulled together in confusion.

“Mummy?” Mycroft said uncertainly. “The Gate is—it’s inert. No power whatsoever.”

“Not possible,” Mummy huffed, and held out her hand. “I just empowered it myself three days ago. It should last at least a year under normal…” Her voice trailed off as Mycroft dropped the marbles into her hand. She frowned, rolled the conjoined marbles in her hand, spoke a word that John, oddly, couldn’t hear, and the little spheres suddenly glowed from within, then separated in her hand.

“There,” she said, dropping it back in Mycroft’s hand. “Now scan it, carefully, and see if you can sense the destination. Feel for movement, for lack of a better word. This is a skill you should be able to learn now, though I doubt Sherlock is quite ready yet.” Sherlock scowled behind her, but held his peace.

Mycroft closed his eyes, the Gate spheres held tightly in one fist. He briefly lifted that fist to his forehead, then lowered it. “Not quite,” he sighed. “I suspect you’ll have to demonstrate the technique first.”

“Fair enough,” Mellie said, and took the marbles into her hand, while Mycroft moved over and placed one hand on the side of her face. They both closed their eyes and concentrated momentarily, before Mellie’s slammed back open in outrage.

“Oh,” she breathed. “That _utter_ bastard. He used the townhouse, _our_ townhouse! How _dare_ he—attack my child, and do it in my own home. Well, former home.”

Mycroft looked quite unsettled. “My _current_ home,” he said with distaste. “I must prevail upon you to teach me proper warding, Mummy. This must not happen again.”

“Well, the good news is, the old wards should still be there, just dormant,” Mellie said. “But I think we’ll add a layer or two, under the circumstances.” She turned to her older son. “Do you see how the search is done, now?” she asked, while handing the Gate back to John.

“Yes,” Mycroft said absently, clearly still distressed about the invasion of his personal space. Behind him, Sherlock gestured imperiously at John, waving him over and holding out his hand.

“Let me try,” Sherlock said, grabbing at the little spheres and holding his closed fist to his forehead. Then he stopped abruptly, opened his hand, stared at the marbles, stared at John, stared at the marbles. He turned back towards his mother, holding out the Gate, dropping it on her palm. She, too, turned and stared at John. It was starting to make him feel both self-conscious and not a little bit alarmed. Mycroft made a discontented sound, and Mellie passed him the Gate wordlessly—and then he, too, stared at John. But he, at least, finally managed to speak.

“My God,” he said, in a tone both awed and mildly alarmed. “He’s a _Null_.”

After a round of tea and biscuits (because John, at least, really _needed_ tea at that point), Mellie finally deigned to explain, yet again.

“A Null is a unique fae talent,” she began. “One that is thought largely extinct, in fact, but not through chance or evolution. Historically, such fae children were delivered back to the human world and abandoned as soon as their nature became known—in earlier times they were often humanely destroyed, if destroying your own child can ever be termed ‘humane’.”

“Jesus,” John said. “But why? What’s so awful about it, and what does it have to do with me? I’m not fae, for God’s sake.”

Mellie shook her head. “You are, actually,” she said, “but not quite in the sense that the rest of us are. In modern terms I suppose you’d say Nulls are mutations, or genetic sports. They don’t run in families as far as I know, and very, very few were ever born. But clearly you have fae somewhere back in your family—perhaps another Null, raised in human society and never knowing what he or she actually was.”

Sherlock looked almost pleased—as if he was somehow responsible for identifying John, the rare fae talent, without being aware of it. Mycroft, though, still looked a bit spooked.

“What’s so bad about it?” John asked again. “Is it…am I dangerous to fae, somehow?” It seemed very unlikely—how could he be dangerous to a creature that could open up holes in the world, and drop people through it?

“In a sense,” Mycroft said. “Do you know what the word ‘Null’ means?”

“”Nothing’, or maybe ‘zero’, yeah?” John said.

“Close enough,” Mellie replied, taking up the reins of the conversation again. “You know that the fae are creatures of magic. It is an essential part of our nature; it’s not who we are, quite, but it’s a very large part of it, and the magic surrounds us every day of our lives. But a Null can _void_ magic—just as you voided the magic of the Gate. It doesn’t even typically require conscious effort on your part—as you’ve seen, you simply touched the Gate, and the magic was drained as if it never were.”

John thought about that. “Well, I can see how that would be problematic, particularly in an environment where a lot of things are done through magic. But surely that’s not _dangerous_, per se.”

“That’s only the _unconscious_ use of your ability, John,” Sherlock said. “But there’s a conscious side as well. If you really wished to, if you applied your will to it, you could strip everyone in this room of their magic. Permanently. Irreparably. Through nothing more than a touch, and a bit of will.”

And John could see it, then—could understand the near-horror with which the others viewed him. “I would _never_—” he began, but was interrupted by Mellie.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” she said. But then she got a sudden, Holmesian gleam in her eye, as she looked to each of her sons in her turn. “But _Rudy_ doesn’t know that!” she caroled in glee.


	4. Combat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things come to a head with Rudy. It's all rather more, well, elvish than John expected, and not everyone walks away unscathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost there--just a short Epilogue to follow.

They, Mellie and her boys, had arranged this very, very carefully. “We’ll only get one chance,” Mellie said sternly. “If we bung things up, he’ll slip across the veil and we’ll spend the next twenty years waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Because, of course, to a fae, twenty years was _nothing_, in the grand scheme of things.

They set it up in Baker Street by intent. “There’s a certain small advantage of familiar ground,” Mycroft said. “Not a lot, but perhaps enough to make the difference. We could do it in Surrey, of course, but we’d be hard put to explain your presence there, John. And we don’t want to immediately turn Rudy’s attention to you.” He gave one of his not-smiles. “Until it’s warranted.”

“There’s also the fact that he could almost certainly track the Gate back to the source, even though it’s now inert,” Sherlock added. “So I would rather solve this before my uncle shows up on our doorstep on his own. So to speak.” Since they all knew it would have nothing whatsoever to do with a door—not a real one, anyway.

Mellie did insist on waiting two days, for Sherlock’s sake. “While you don’t need to be fully healed, you need to be able to stand without pain and not be distracted,” she said. “And since you won’t let me heal you…”

Sherlock sighed, but agreed.

They spent much of those two days shuttling between Baker Street and Mycroft’s Kensington townhouse, where considerable time and effort was spent reinforcing the wards. Mellie was finally satisfied after three hours’ solid work, with Mycroft supplying her with extra power to use in her craftings while observing her technique. “You’ll need to reinforce them once a month or so,” she said. “But you shouldn’t have any trouble now that I’ve shown you how.” Mycroft nodded, obviously focused on something John could neither see nor hear. Sherlock had also looked on attentively, though his scowls of frustration indicated that this procedure was not yet within his skillset.

Finally Mellie pronounced them ready. Mycroft had had a large collection of mysterious boxes and bags delivered, and John had carefully pushed all of the lounge furniture out of the way, leaving a large open space in the middle of the room. Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's today, thankfully—if nothing else, she might have objected to the departure of her Oriental rug for the attic, or the large (and slightly disturbing) circle and sigils being magically burned into the hardwood floor. Sigils, by the way, that disappeared when Mellie waved her hand over them.

Mellie gathered them all in the kitchen for a final discussion. “Now, John, understand that it’s necessary that I drop my glamour for this—I can’t afford the extra energy required to maintain it. Please don’t be alarmed, dear—it’s appearance, nothing more.”

John nodded. “Got it, yeah, not worried.”

Mellie beamed. “Excellent,” she said. “There will also be a tiny bit of blood involved—hopefully all voluntary. It is necessary to seal certain elements, but poses no danger in and of itself.” She pondered that a moment, then continued with a little moue of recognition. “And I don’t know why I’m worrying about you so much, dear—realistically you’ll be the safest person in the room.”

“So you told me,” John said. “Though I still find it pretty damn hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” Sherlock said. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be here, and we’d be handling this very differently. Honestly, your ability is an unexpected gift.” He grinned, with that air of barely repressed excitement he always had before the denouement of a really, really good case.

When all was ready, when they’d rehearsed as much as seemed reasonable, when John was ready to scream with nerves, Mellie finally nodded. “Positions!” she barked, and suddenly that tall, alien-looking woman stood in her place, silver hair lifting in a non-existent breeze. Mycroft and Sherlock moved to stand behind her, secondary teeth now slotted into place, eyes phosphorescent green, obsidian claws gleaming in the firelight. John—John stood even with Mellie, slightly to one side, concentrating on looking harmless and not too bright.

Mellie reached forward with her right foot and stepped carefully on one of the sigils, while avoiding each of the others. “**_Brother_**,” she breathed, in a high, crystalline voice entirely unlike her normal tone. “**_I call thee, with the blood we share_**.” She pulled a tiny silver knife from her waist, pricked a finger briskly, and let two drops of blood drip onto the sigil, which lit with a bright blue light that stung John’s retinas.

They waited; one minute, two. Suddenly, though, there was a wavering in the light in front of the windows, where Sherlock’s music stand usually lived. Then John’s ears popped, and a man stood there, looking annoyed. He was a male version of Mellie: very tall, very thin, mature but not old, with curiously alien features and black eyes.

As he walked forward and looked over the room, his expression changed, to one of slightly amused spitefulness. “Oh,” he said. “I see.”

“See what, brother?” Mellie asked calmly. “I have simply invited you to my younger child’s home for a bit of conversation. You did, after all, invite _yourself_ to my older son’s abode.”

Rudy sneered. “It was your home once, and the invitation was never revoked. I know the rules of hospitality, sister.” Because Mellie had explained that to John—hospitality was sacrosanct, for both fae Courts. To violate those rules was to risk punitive action from higher powers—even Rudy wouldn’t dare offend the royals, but it might put him off-balance to imply that Mellie would make such a claim.

Mellie simply nodded. “I see,” she said. “But we have more to discuss, after all. Your attack on my son?”

The sneer got wider, taking in the two standing behind their mother. “Ah, yes,” Rudy said, “the lesser mongrel. I believe he will prove marginally useful, despite his less-than-civilized current appearance. And you have two, after all—you can spare the one, surely?”

Behind Mellie, Mycroft began a low, hissing growl, claws flexing.

Rudy laughed. “And you wonder why I was glad to be spared that portion of our heritage, Mélisande,” he said. That was something else Mellie had explained—despite most children of mixed vampire heritage transitioning at puberty, Rudy had not, among all his siblings. He had apparently convinced himself it was a mark of superiority.

“I will not permit this,” Mellie said, raising her voice to be heard over Mycroft’s continuing growl—a sound John was convinced the bureaucrat wasn’t aware of making. Sherlock stood frozen, staring silently at his uncle. John wasn’t sure if that was fascination, or terror.

Rudy laughed. “It’s not up to you,” he said.

“We removed the cursed steel,” Mellie replied. “And the Seelie Court will have something to say about its application on a living subject.”

Rudy reached out one hand, as if to pull Sherlock towards him. “**_Come_**,” he said, in a tone much like his sister had used. And Sherlock, to John’s horror, made a wounded noise, clutching his chest and jerking slightly forward. This time it was terror in his eyes—John could see it.

The air audibly whistled out of Mellie. “You used _blood magic _as well?” she said, in horrified tones. “On your own family?” Behind her, Sherlock began inching forward, visibly fighting the motion. Mycroft stopped growling and grabbed at his brother, only to be thrown halfway across the room by a motion of his uncle’s free hand. Mellie threw out her own hand and spoke one of those words John couldn’t quite hear, and Rudy swore, the arm he’d used to harm Mycroft dropping useless at his side. But Sherlock continued to move—whining now in pain, but moving.

And that was just about enough for John. He stepped into Sherlock’s path, blocking his motion. His presence seemed to give the detective some momentary relief, as he slumped to his knees behind John. John’s movement, however, pulled Rudy’s attention onto him.

“And what’s your place in all of this, little man?” Rudy sneered. And, truth be told, John _was_ little next to this attenuated giant—unglamoured, the fae was almost seven feet tall, and looked many decades short of the eighty John knew him to be.

“Oh,” John said, “I’m to stand at Sherlock’s side. It’s sort of my mission. Especially when pricks like you are around.” He stepped closer to the fae, while attempting to gently shove Sherlock back towards his mother with his left arm. He didn’t succeed, and, predictably enough, Rudy was incensed.

The tall man raised his undamaged arm, releasing his pull on Sherlock momentarily, and threw…_something_…at John with one of those un-hearable words. John felt that something touch his skin, like a ripple of water. And, without thinking about it, he stuck one hand into the flow and _pulled_.

Every fae in the room shuddered. Rudy, though—Rudy paled, grabbed his chest, and thudded to his hands and knees. John abruptly let go of whatever he’d been pulling, unsure what, exactly, had just happened. Mellie, though, took her opportunity—she darted forward, raised her hand and shouted another Word, and the sigils all laced together and lit up like New Years’ fireworks—with Rudy locked in the center of the circle.

“Now,” Mellie said, “let’s have a little chat, shall we? Once we have everyone slightly more comfortable than they are now. Well, everyone but _you_…”

In short order, John had helped Mycroft up, looked at the scorched area across his temple and applied some topical burn cream and analgesic, and he and Mycroft tucked Sherlock into bed with a dose of injectable paracetamol on board, while Mellie stood vigil over her silent, glowering brother. When Mycroft and John returned to the lounge the two were glaring at each other wordlessly—apparently that form of conversation was actually a Vernet peculiarity, not a Holmes one.

Mellie looked up at their return. “Well?” she said, directing her question somewhere between the two of them.

“Don’t know, actually,” John said. “He’s sleeping—that’s probably good.”

“But we must determine the appropriate treatment for the blood magic,” Mycroft added. “Sooner rather than later. Perhaps Uncle Rudy would be a good place to start.” His fangs, which had receded earlier, were once again prominent as he faced down the older man.

Mellie shook her head. “Not urgent. And I wouldn’t trust any answer Rudy gave us,” she said. “Martha can take a look tomorrow and do what’s necessary, I’m sure. And it can wait—without Rudy’s pull, it’s largely dormant anyway.”

John blinked. “Um…Martha?” he asked.

Mellie nodded. “Of course,” she said. “I assumed you knew she was a healer.” Mycroft gave a knowing smirk over her shoulder but stayed silent. John blinked again, but let it go for now.

The tall woman turned back to her still-kneeling brother. “So, Rudy—do you know what just happened?”

The sharp-featured head, so like a bird of prey, raised. “He’s a Null,” he said, in a thread of a voice. “I thought they were a myth.”

“Nope,” John said. “At least, so I’m told.”

“Completely un-taught,” Mellie said flatly. “So you’re actually lucky he only drained you temporarily. You perceive the danger, I presume: if I ask him to, John will step right into the circle with you. He will touch you, and he will _pull—_he’s already figured out how to do that. And every bit of magic you have, every bit of magic you will _ever_ have, will come right out in his hands, never to return. If that’s the way you want this to go, I am perfectly content. You will not be able to cross the veil. You will stay here, essentially human, for however many years remain to you. You may even have a typical fae lifetime—it’s hard to say, though it seems unlikely. But you will continue to age, you know—the magic is part of what sustains you, and with that gone…I suspect you will find eighty much less comfortable than it previously was.” She gave a delicate pause. “Is that what you want, brother?”

“Of course not,” Rudy said, with a wisp of his former arrogance. “You knew that before you started speaking. I am aware you are in a position to dictate terms, Mélisande. Get on with it.”

Mellie nodded. “Very well.” She nodded towards Mycroft, who reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of parchment—one that had been very carefully lettered, with ink that included powdered silver, the day before. It had words in symbols John couldn’t read, and Sherlock had told him was High Court language. He’d also translated, roughly, so that John understood the gist of the agreement. Mellie had sniffed and given John the true words—imbedded them somehow into his head, so he could appreciate the beauty of the language.

Mycroft threw the parchment at his uncle’s feet, being careful not to step on the still-glowing sigils. “Read it,” he hissed, his fangs causing a bit of an ominous lisp. “Then read it again as an oath, and bind yourself. Or I will send John in myself. You are receiving this offer over my objections—and I say that formally as Prince Regent of _Le_ _Premier Sang_. I think you will find that even the Unseelie Court would prefer to stay on our good side. Just some additional food for thought.”

Rudy reached out an unsteady hand and picked up the parchment, reading over it silently. Then he lifted that proud head, placed his good hand over his heart, and spoke.

“**_I, Rudolph Phillippe Belvoir Vernet, do accede to my sister’s requests, in all things and in all manner_**,” he said, in that rolling liquid tongue that John’s ears didn’t know, but his brain translated quickly. “**_I bind me from all harm to her, her heirs, and her assigns, for all time and all persons. In no wise, in thought, influence, or deed, shall I ever again attempt injury against her or hers, nor shall I allow such harm to succeed through other persons or entities if stopping such be within my power. I shall warn her of all plots or intent of other malign forces, and act as a stalwart aid against such if needed. I agree so freely, and under no duress beyond my own defeat in direct combat against her. So mote it be, so mote it be—I bind me!_**” he finished in a near-shout, smacking his hand down on the edge of the sigils. They flared, bright-white and blue, in a flash like lightning. Then John’s ears popped again, and the circle was empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, Rudy is a Really Bad Guy in ALL of my worlds!


	5. Restoration and Recuperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. H arrives and shows John how its done, fae-style. It's a little messier than expected, and Sherlock doesn't enjoy it much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's a wrap, friends! One thing I realized I forgot to mention--Elizabethfromholland deserves some of the credit for the inspiration of this particular fic, when she pointed out that it was slightly suspicious how readily Mrs. Hudson accepted all the supernatural/vampiric stuff that was going on around her...

Mycroft took Mellie home not long after that, but not before a bit of tactical explanation, thank God.

“Why did you let him go?” John asked. He knew it had gone against Mycroft’s better judgement, and was unclear, given Mellie’s reaction to the things Rudy had done, why she had allowed it.

“Pragmatism,” Mellie sighed, as Mycroft nodded over his tea. At John’s blank look, she sighed and continued, a little too much like Sherlock in his “You’re an idiot sometimes” mode.

“Think like a soldier, John,” she said. “The first thing you must understand is that, unlike human oaths, fae ones are absolutes: to break faith is to die, most of the time. The magic takes care of that for us—if you invoke the magic in making promises, the magic insures that they are kept. So Rudy will not, _can_ not, pose any further damage to any of us. But that’s just the beginning.”

“Remember the wording,” Mycroft said, picking up the thread of the conversation. “Not only is he bound to cease any and all action against us and ours, in perpetuity—at my suggestion, Mummy added the portion about his recognizing, and defending against, any action on anyone else’s part as well. So, essentially—”

“We now have a spy in the Unseelie Court, sort of,” Mellie finished triumphantly. “Something we could never have managed before. It removes the lion’s share of the danger that Rudy’s Choice represented. So thank you for that idea, Myc—that was a brilliant addition.”

Mycroft gave a slightly smug smile and nodded, turning his attention back to his tea.

“But doesn’t that also essentially give _Le Premier Sang_ a spy as well?” John asked, just to prove he wasn’t quite as much an idiot as Mycroft apparently thought him. Mellie’s look of surprised recognition was paired with Mycroft’s sour smile.

“Yes,” said the Prince Regent. “So it would appear.”

He carefully avoided his mother’s eyes, which rolled just like her younger son’s. “Really, Myc,” she said. “Do you do _nothing_ without hidden agendas?” Mycroft stayed silent; they all knew the answer to that one, after all.

After they left, John went in to check on Sherlock before sloping off to his own bed; the detective slept fitfully, looking ill but not frighteningly so. John didn’t wake him, but he did text Mrs. Hudson to make sure she was returning early the next day; just the sound of “blood magic” was alarming enough to make John want it dealt with sooner rather than later.

As it happened, he needn’t have worried—Mellie had already contacted her. _I should be back by 8_, the older woman said. _But there should be a delivery or two before that, if you can make sure to let them in_.

As per his instructions, John was up with the birds the next morning, popping downstairs to get breakfast started by half-six. That worked out well, as it happened—the doorbell rang three times in the next half-hour, with a progression of boxes and bags delivered and arrayed on the kitchen table. The third disturbance woke Sherlock, who called hoarsely from the bedroom.

“Can you help me up?” Sherlock rasped. “I’m dizzy when I stand.” He had apparently already tried on his own, and was now lying diagonally across the foot of the bed, where he’d ended up after his failed attempt.

In short order, John had helped him into the bathroom (and hovered just outside the door, despite Sherlock’s whinging protests), then shuttled him to a chair in the kitchen. Sherlock had just finished a bag of blood and (grudgingly) a piece of plain toast when Mrs. Hudson clattered in downstairs.

As she thumped hurriedly up the steps, John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock and grinned. “Incoming,” he murmured. Sherlock sighed, looking resigned.

Mrs. Hudson headed straight to Sherlock without a word, laying one fine-boned hand across his forehead and closing her eyes. “Oh dear,” she said after a moment. “I can see why your mother is so concerned. That _horrible_ man!”

“What do we need to do?” John asked. “Any special equipment needed?”

Mrs. H shook her head. “Not above what’s already been delivered,” she said with a smirk. “But you can hold Sherlock’s hand—this will hurt, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I think I can manage,” he said dryly. “Now, can we get things underway? I don’t trust my mother not to show up with a gaggle of other healers unless she hears from us soon.” And John couldn’t disagree with that assessment.

In short order they were set up in Sherlock’s bedroom. John was, well, shocked to see that the “special equipment” that had been delivered was standard testing laboratory stuff, for the most part—syringes, a small centrifuge, test tubes. But the boxes also included an additional cooler of blood bags equipped for use with an IV drip.

“Are we really going to need that?” John asked, a little uneasy with the amount.

“Maybe,” Mrs. H said absently. “It depends on what we find.” She briskly shoved Sherlock’s sleeve up and nodded towards John. “Can you be a dear and pull a blood sample for me? One good-sized vial should be enough. I could do it the hard way, but this is less painful.”

John, carefully not asking what “the hard way” consisted of, did as he was asked, then handed the warm, filled vial to his landlady/fae healer, who held it up and stared at it firmly for roughly thirty seconds.

“There,” she said. “I’ve managed to flag the affected cells, I believe. So let’s take this to Sherlock’s microscope and take a look.”

Sherlock, of course, lunged out of bed and grabbed John’s arm for support, determined to be the first one there. Mrs. H huffed, but allowed it.

“Well,” Sherlock said, after dropping blood on the slide and placing it under the lens. “That’s…rather a lot.” John urged him back and looked through the eyepiece himself, shocked to see numerous red blood cells shimmering with a pale blue luminescence. By rough estimate, at least 80% of the visible cells were affected.

Mrs. Hudson insisted on chivvying Sherlock back to bed before she commented. “That didn’t tell us anything I didn’t already suspect,” she said. “You practically reek of it, once you know what to look for.” Sherlock looked offended at the idea of “reeking”, and glared daggers at John when he snickered.

“So what’s needed, then?” John asked.

“Well, normally we’d draw off as much of the affected blood as was safe, and return fresh in its place,” Mrs. H said. “Obviously, in this case that would be rather a lot, and would probably need to be done in two sessions. But, given what you are, John—should we try an experiment first?”

Sherlock, of course, was immediately on board, and John, mystified, saw no harm. The older woman positioned her hand over the detective’s chest again, and made a tiny gesture with her hand. Sherlock jerked, and a round, glistening ball of blood, roughly the size of a marble, appeared in mid-air about four inches above him.

Mrs. Hudson kept her hand just to the side of the marble, looking at John. “Now,” she said, “I want you to carefully reach out a finger, and just touch the side of the ball. Just barely, now.”

John obediently reached out, extending his finger until he met a slippery resistance. It wasn’t unpleasant, just odd.

“Excellent,” Mrs. H crooned. “Now, I want you to try and pull the magic, if you can. Mellie said you were quite the prodigy—I’m sure you can do it. Just give it a tug.”

John tried; did that curious “grabbing” thing he’d used before, then pulled, hard. And suddenly the little ball of blood popped, and dropped into a large bloody splodge on the middle of Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock squawked like he’d been shot, hauling the besmirched shirt over his head, then using the wadded remains to scrub furiously at his bare chest, all while scowling at John.

“What happened?” John said, looking helplessly at the two fae. “Did it not work?”

“Ah, well, I should have thought of that,” Mrs. Hudson said. “I was hoping you could just strip the blood magic out, and I could return the ‘cleaned’ blood using magic. Less mess, less time, less pain. But you, well, you pull _all_ magic out—including the bits Sherlock rather needs, and that _I_ need to be able to place it back where it belongs.” She sighed. “It was worth a try.”

The plan, as Mrs. H explained it, was simple: remove a critical amount of the tainted blood and replace it with clean, so that the remaining contamination was overwhelmed by healthy blood. In the end, they did it what Mrs. H called the “old-fashioned” way: the older fae positioned herself by Sherlock, a plastic-bag-lined bin at her side, and literally drew globes of blood out of Sherlock with her hands. It was painful, to the point where John did, indeed, end up holding Sherlock’s shaking hand through the last bits. By the time they finished, Sherlock was grey-white and barely conscious. Mrs. Hudson put the bin on the floor and touched her fingers to his temple, and his eyes slid shut for good.

“There,” she said. “That’s all we can do for today. Hook up that drip, please, John, and we’ll give him a couple of bags now. When he wakes up, he can drink one for lunch and dinner as well, though we’d best wait on solids until tomorrow. We’ll finish up then, and he’ll be right as rain after a bit more rest.”

While John emptied out the bin (carefully pulling the magic out of the contents first, just in case), Mrs. Hudson scanned her sleeping patient one more time, before nodding with satisfaction and following John back out to the lounge.

Ten minutes later, John and his landlady sat comfortably in the chairs in front of the fireplace, gazing into the warm flames that Mrs. H had created with a wave of her hands.

“I can’t believe you’re fae,” John said, after a couple of minutes of perplexed silence. “Well, the rest of the Holmeses either—”

“_Vernets_, John. The Holmes line have not an ounce of magic among them. Just bloody great teeth and claws,” Mrs. H tittered. “But it’s not quite as much a coincidence as you might think.” She looked, oddly enough, slightly guilty.

John thought about that, giving her a critical look. “And that means…” he said.

“Well, I’ve known Sherlock’s family for rather longer than you knew, and certainly longer than _he_ knows,” the old lady said. “How do you suppose they knew I was a healer, hmm?”

“I, well, I assumed they could just tell,” John said. “Just like Mycroft and Sherlock can ‘smell’ magic.”

“No,” she said. “They could tell I was fae, of course—any other fae could. But not what individual talents I might have. No, they, well, _Mellie_, knew because she’d used my services in the past. And Mycroft knew because he met me, the second time around.” She smiled fondly in the direction of Sherlock’s bedroom. “I was there when both boys were born,” she said proudly. “I told you a bit of a fib a while back, you know—when I said I hadn’t known Sherlock was a vampire. I did—he just didn’t know I knew.”

“But why didn’t he? I mean, if you’d known them all that time?” John asked, totally lost.

“Well, I didn’t know _them_, actually—just their mum,” Mrs. H said. “I attended the births for professional reasons, you know—sometimes vampire/fae births can be quite tricky. It’s why Sherlock was so very early, in fact, and why there were so many years between the two of them. But, in the midst of that period, Mellie and I hit it off—corresponded for years, even after I married Frank and moved to Florida.”

She leaned forward and near-whispered, in a conspiratorial fashion. “It was a bit of a scandal, you see—a healer marrying a human. My family was horrified—all but cut me off. But not Mellie. Got letters once a month like clockwork. So when I heard about Sherlock’s little investigating hobby, and then realized what Frank had gotten into, I rang her up and asked for help. She shipped him along on the next plane without telling him a thing about our knowing one another—just said she’d heard about the case from a ‘friend of a friend’, and thought he’d be interested. The rest you know, I should think.” She looked around the lounge fondly. “And of course, they, Mellie and Siger, were quite pleased when I offered Sherlock the flat. He was quite young by vampire standards to be living alone, you know, and his previous attempts had gone very poorly—it was much more acceptable for him to live with someone who’s basically extended family, even if he never knew it.” She grinned. “Just make sure you don’t tell him that part, John Watson—he might move out in a snit.”

“Family?” John said, still confused.

“Well, yes,” Mrs. H said. “Mellie was so grateful for my help with Sherlock’s birth—it was quite touch-and-go, you know—that she made me one of his godmothers. So—”

“Christ on a pogo stick,” John sighed. “You’re his ‘fairy godmother’.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All in the Family - Missing Scene](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25278460) by [dragonnan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonnan/pseuds/dragonnan)


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